It’s a bit of culinary magic. Plain old black-eyed peas are transformed into a fluffy white cloud, before somehow changing once again, this time into a crimson, crispy fritter. This is acarajé, and as a dish with origins in Bahia, the homeland of Afro-Brazilian spirituality, other types of magic can also play a role. In Lisbon, you can witness the results of this transformation at Acarajé da Carol. “There are other people [in Portugal] making acarajé, but they’re not from Bahia!” the eponymous owner – full name Carol Alves de Brito – tells us. Bahia, Carol’s homeland, is the region of Brazil with the strongest links to Africa. Salvador, the state’s capital, was once a major destination in the trans-Atlantic slave trade, and today it’s the largest Black city outside of Africa.

Pies, sweet and savory, constitute a massive chapter of traditional Greek cuisine, and are also a timeless popular street food all across the nation. Most classic Greek pie shops tend to open early in the morning, as pies are popular for breakfast, and close in the afternoon, usually after they have sold out for the day. That’s why Ta Stachia, a small shop in Exarchia, stands out – an after-hours pie shop, it runs steadily throughout the night, not only feeding all the pub crawlers and nighthawks, but also staying open until about noon for the early birds who walk their dogs or set off for work or school.

Queens Boulevard, a major thoroughfare that cuts through the heart of the borough, accommodates many lanes of automobiles traveling to and from Manhattan. Some eateries that flank it seem geared for auto traffic, too: One stretch of roadway, in Elmhurst, sports a classic diner, an Argentine steakhouse and a fast-food restaurant marked by golden arches. Driving by, or even walking by, we might easily miss a corner business that looks out on those other eateries. From outside, on a sunny day, the storefront seems more like a mirror than a window; modest signage marks the doors. Opening them, we enter Arya Cafe and leave behind the glare of the sun and the honking hustle and bustle of passing cars, trucks and buses for the murmur of conversation, mostly in Tibetan.

You are motionless, stuck in a traffic jam after a long day at work while your stomach growls. You know the rest of the family will be hungry when you get home and that the fridge is empty and sad. Shopping and cooking is out of the question, so you turn onto a Vera side street, zig-zag through one-way lanes to Tatishvili Street, double park, and run into a tiny gastronomic oasis that has been saving lives like yours for nearly a decade. Its name is Tartan. Located in a step-down ground-floor apartment, takeout cafeterias don’t get homier than this. The front room is taken up with a long counter of refrigerated display cases half filled with enough ready-made dishes to lay down a feast when you get home.

Perusing the menus of most Indian restaurants in Los Angeles, one may forget that India is the seventh-largest country in the world, with over 30 states and union territories. A limited handful of the same recipes – chicken tikka masala, tandoori, naan – repeat themselves time and time again. These are the dishes most commonly found on Indian restaurants’ menus across the U.S., including Los Angeles, and they all hail from North India. Sridhar Sambangi is looking to change this at Banana Leaf, which serves regional specialties from South India. Sambangi spent more than 30 years working in technology startups, which included a cloud-based food ordering service for restaurants. Food has always been his passion, though, and he finally took the leap to start his own restaurant with Banana Leaf.

It’s an early example of guilt tripping. The story goes that a monk arrived in a Portuguese village, hungry and clever. He grabbed a rock and carried it door to door, claiming that it was his only ingredient, asking people if they would be kind enough to supplement it so he could make a meal. Tugging on heartstrings in this manner, he was able to accumulate a pot, a potato, some beans, a bit of sausage and some salt-preserved pork and seasonings – a hodgepodge of ingredients that, along with that crucial stone, he united as soup. Thus, goes the story, sopa de pedra, “stone soup,” was born. Hélia Costa, a restaurateur in Almeirim, an hour north of Lisbon, tells a much more practical origin story for the dish’s unique name.

Écume is French for sea foam. Modifying one letter, Ekume is also the Saint Victor neighborhood’s new restaurant gastronomique that summons (and is summoned by) the Mediterranean every day. Located near the end of Rue Sainte in Marseille, Ekume’s neighborhood includes a promontory with thrilling views of the waters, boats, coastline and the Vieux Port. The restaurant is also one block away from the 5th-century Saint Victor Abbey, with its evocative beauty and occasional evening concerts. At first glance, Ekume, with its staid and comfortable décor in tan, beige, and slate blue, seems to correspond to the many bougie restaurants cropping up in the 7th and 8th arrondissements in recent years. The experience of dining at Ekume, however, offers the opportunity to contemplate how space itself can transform with imaginative cuisine, accents, personality, and hospitality.

Beignets & More is the kind of place you want everyone to know about – and you don’t want anyone to know about. Tucked between a defunct Cineplex and an Off-Track Betting location in a strip mall in Chalmette, a downriver suburb of New Orleans, it is a family-run gem of Vietnamese cuisine. But the name is a cloaking device of sorts: The beignets, which are made fresh daily, seem like an afterthought. Until recently, we’d never even had them. In all the years we’ve taken the short drive to this nondescript restaurant, we have always stayed on the “More” side of the menu.

Editor’s note: In the latest installment of our recurring First Stop feature, we asked Javier Cabral, the Long Beach-based Editor in Chief of L.A. TACO, where his go-to spots are in L.A.’s last-standing working-class beachside community. He is the former restaurant scout for Jonathan Gold, the Associate Producer of the Taco Chronicles series on Netflix, and the author of “Oaxaca: Home Cooking From the Heart of Mexico” and “Asada: The Art of Mexican-Style Grilling.” Javier has been having the time of his life tasting through all of the Cambodian, Laotian, Thai, and Vietnamese noodles in Cambodia Town and Little Saigon in Westminster. Follow him and L.A. TACO on Instagram. Confession time: Moving to Long Beach straight-up reinvigorated my passion for eating out in my home city. Mainly because living in the middle of L.A.’s Cambodia Town and its universe of dank noodles, beef sticks, and mango salads is a hell of a lot more exhilarating than the wave of post-gentrification restaurants that have opened in Highland Park in the last decade.

Venture inside the Ballarò market – a lively and historic city market in Palermo’s Albergheria district – and you will find yourself catapulted into a sensory experience: the colors of the fruits and vegetables, the smoke from the grills clouding the alleys, the smell of spices mingling with the smell of survival. And then the voices: they all shout here. Or rather: they “abbannìano.” “Abbanniari” is the ancient custom of Palermo street vendors to sing out their goods to attract customers’ attention. Derived from the times and from a world in which marketing studies and advertising techniques had not yet arrived, in which even noticeable signage was a quantum leap that not all merchants could afford, the abbanniata was the democratic and free tool available to street vendors, because all they needed was their own voice.

Istanbul's western suburb of Küçükçekmece is flanked by a small lake of the same name, the water of which flows from a river in the north and out into the Marmara Sea in the opposite direction. The coastline of the lake is just steps away from a train that stops at the foot of the Cennet neighborhood, where a hillside of ramshackle, single-story houses with gardens look out over the water. At the top of the hill, the neighborhood takes on a more modern character with six-story apartments and a bustling pedestrian avenue packed with cafes and restaurants.

Senhor António, the keeper of one of the oldest grocery shops in Lisbon, Mercearia Celta, died two weeks ago. With his passing, Culinary Backstreets Lisbon lost a dear friend and the city lost a living link to what is an increasingly disappearing past. “That’s life.” This phrase would end most of our conversations and visits to his tidy, old grocery shop. António da Fonseca, or Sr. António, as we knew him, was the most beloved inhabitant of the Campo de Ourique neighborhood and his corner shop a true neighborhood institution. He regularly welcomed guests on our Lisbon Awakens tour with never-ending enthusiasm and would be, for most visitors, the highlight of their walk.

One of the great joys of spring in Japan is anticipating the appearance of sansai, or mountain vegetables. When cherry blossoms begin to flutter on warming breezes, hikers take to the hills to forage for the first wild edibles. Supermarkets mount special displays of packaged (and unfortunately often hot-house-raised) young sprouted leaves, shoots and tubers. Restaurants proudly offer up special seasonal dishes, providing an opportunity to bring the freshness of the outdoors to the table, even in the inner city. A bounty of deliciousness awaits those fortunate enough to get out of Tokyo and roam the hills. Fukinoto, taranome and warabi form a trifecta of green vegetables gleaned from mountain walks. Cooks wait all year to prepare dishes of these fragrant yasai veggies.

Bunny Young, clad in a bright red chef’s coat and matching hat, stands in the galley kitchen of her New Orleans East home slowly stirring a pot of butter beans. She has done this thousands of times, but each time is a prayer offered to her ancestors, the generations of New Orleans 7th Ward Creole women who guided Young in the kitchen. Young is not for the faint of heart. Her bold flavors, bold personality and bold sartorial choices are reminiscent of Leah Chase, another legendary Creole chef. Young has a lot on her mind at all times, and she isn’t afraid to tell you, either. But these days, she lets her food do most of the talking, and it, too, has a lot to say.

In the main hall of Antakya’s bus station terminal, there are deep cracks in the walls, rubble litters the floor and dozens of ceiling panels seem to hang on by a thread, the entire thing threatening to collapse at any moment. Bus companies have set up mobile desks outside of the station, and it is from one of these where I buy my evening ticket back to the city of Adana, about four hours to the west by bus. Even though I've just arrived, I already have to plan my exit because there isn't really anywhere left in Antakya to stay the night. Like most structures in the city, the terminal was damaged in February's massive earthquake, the worst of its kind in modern Turkish history.